


When Cold has a Cold

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: Constance Marie Bridgforth [4]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Constance - Freeform, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nordstr0m asked: “sick!Len with a cold and caretaker!Barry”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Cold has a Cold

**Author's Note:**

> nordstr0m said they liked Constance, so I added her in for some extra kick-ass

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Len stops cold, hand hovering over the Advil bottle. 24-hour pharmacies aren’t supposed to be populated by people you know at one in the morning.

“Len?”

 _Especially_ when those people include, a) the woman who almost single-handedly set you up with your husband, and b) your actual husband. Who’s staring at you like you just kicked his puppy in front of a moving truck.

Constance Bridgforth stares Len down, making him wince before he can stop himself. Or maybe that’s the pounding headache talking.

“I asked you a  _question_ , boy,” no, definitely not the headache, “what do you think you’re doing?”

Cool as he could make himself, Len took the Advil from the shelf and shook it side to side. “Need medicine, don’t I?”

“And what do you think your dear husband is here for?” Constance snaps, “Think he just runs around Central City’s pharmacies for kicks?”

Great. Rub salt in the wound, why don’t you. Len wrinkles his stuffed nose. “It’s just a cold,” he croaks, wishing not for the first time that he wasn’t so congested. He sounds like a petulant child. “Barry, I’m  _fine_.”

Barry immediately sets down his basket—fuck, he has a whole  _basket_ full of medicines, tissues, is that Len’s favorite candy? Shit, now Len feels like an asshole—and rushes to him, all worried frowns and big eyes. Even reaches between Len’s thick scarf and pulled hood to cup his face.

“You’re not fine!” he cries, “Has your fever gone up? I told you to stay in bed!”

Len glares at him as best he can from inside his bundle of layers. At the same time, he tries not to lean into the touch; it’s a bad sign when  _Barry’s_ skin is cooler than his. “And  _I_ told  _you,_ it was just a cold. I’m not going to stay in bed for another two weeks. Physical activity—”

“Is clearly doing you no favors,” Constance interrupts. “You will sit yourself down, let your husband hold you, while I take care of this,” she motions to the basket. “Barry, pick that up for me, will you, dear?”

Barry sighs, “Yes, m’am.” Len tries not to chase his hands as they retreat. Damn it.

Once the basket is in Constance’s hand, she pokes Barry in the back with her cane, forcing him to stumble away before he can pull out his wallet. “I might be an old lady boy, but I’m not a poor one,” she says, “take care of your idiot man.”

“But I—”

“Don't talk back to me.”

“…yes, m’am.”

Len almost wants to laugh. If only his throat didn’t feel like Mick shoved his gun down his throat and pulled the trigger. Barry directs him to the line of cheap chairs near the medicine counter.

“Are you cold?” Len grunts a no. “You sure? Even for you, these layers are a bit much.” Barry gently pushes him into a chair, takes his hood off. The fluorescent lights stab Len’s eyes, but Barry’s face is more visible now so he deals with it. “Are you going to let me hold you, then?”

Len’s mouth quirks. “What’s the other option? Have Constance tear me a new one?”

Barry huffs, plopping down beside him. “She’s just worried about you,” he says. Leans forward, until their faces are a scant inch apart. “I am too. When I left earlier, you were snoring. You never snore unless you’re really sick, and your fever was a hundred and two.”

“I prefer to walk it off,” Len mumbles, squinting under the pharmacy lights. They’re obnoxious on a good day; since when are they this bad?

“Well guess what, Captain Cold,” Barry says, taking his mitten-covered hand, “you don’t get a vote.”

“Some husband you are.”

Barry pecks his cheek, grinning at the quiet groan. “Don’t start with that. Let’s get to the holding, huh?”

Len won’t admit it, but he definitely dozes off on Barry’s shoulder, lulled by the rhythmic circles traced on his back. The clicking of Constance’s shoes snap him awake. Barry quietly shushes him, asks if he can stand up.

“I’m not an invalid,” he growls.

“But you  _are_  a grade-A moron, Leonard Allen,” Constance retorts.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Ms. Bridgforth?”

“It’s called insomnia, Leonard. Now hush up and let your husband take you home. You owe me a piece of that leftover cheesecake.”

Len sighs through his mouth, letting Barry lead him from the store by the hand. “Yes, m’am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :D


End file.
